Many years ago, I met this tech exec at the nosebleed levels of Microsoft management. Wish there was flirtation to spice up the story. Sorry. There’s not. I knew this delight of a lady for 20 minutes. Our lives went their separate ways. Still. In that short time, I was able to swear at her. Poor thing. She was only asking for advice.
“ARE YOU — NUTS!?!?!” I asked this fetching stranger. “What the complete holy (EXPLETIVE DELETED) is WRONG with you?!?!?!”
“I know,” she said, pursing her lips and sipping her drink. “I know. I know.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You don’t.”
“I’m thinking about getting a divorce,” she said.
“What are the odds?” I asked. Again? I’ve known this woman 10 minutes.
Perhaps some back story is called for.
Strangers will sometimes share secrets bottled up for eons. We got to chatting. She asked me a great question: “Tell me something about yourself no one knows.”
“Well THAT’S not going to happen …” I said. We both laughed. I shared that, in all my life, I had never fallen off horse or motorcycle, which I still hold is rather amazing.
She confessed, “I’ve been married five times, three to the same guy.” That, in itself, was not amazing. “I’ve caught him three times, in the act, of cheating on me with adult film actresses. The latest incident was a week ago.”
She said she was considering counseling. Again. To save the marriage.
That’s when the F-bomb and query about the woman’s sanity escaped from my lips.
And, that’s also the answer to the current Southern California wildfire crises we’re experiencing. Thank you for reading. End of column. Going to get a soda pop now.
OK. Fine. More? The first two times the software mogul caught her hubbie cheating, she divorced him. Married two other losers in between, divorced them, then remarried the hubbie submerged in pornography performers for a third time, making for a grand total of five marriages. The phrase, “pornography performers” was hers. She refused to grant the dignity of referring to them as, “stars.”
For centuries, it gets windy here. And dry. Brush collects. Fire visits. As the non-Buddhist Frankenstein monster once noted, “Fire — BAD!”
I’m not smart enough to offer suggestions. But, I’ve questions. If, for centuries, SoCal keeps burning to the ground, shouldn’t we be doing something — different — to be more prepared?
I’ve always marveled about the response to these epic fires. Days later, TV news crews are giddy that aircraft carrier-sized water-carrying planes from Denmark or some faraway spot on the globe are headed over to help fight our acreage-gobbling flames. Here’s a thought. With the billions, possibly trillions, we waste over the years, could we not have multiple standing firefighting stations dotting the state, each holding two or three of our own super carriers and a fleet of helicopters? Water tanks on every hill? I’ve pals who own construction companies. You go get the usual suspects’ estimates on building a water storage reservoir or 200 and I guarantee you, my pals will beat their construction costs. Here’s a crazy idea. I’m STILL trying to get a handle on heterosexuality so I’m not one to lecture on sexual preferences and techniques. But, instead of DEI, what if our leaders focused on making sure there’s water in the reservoirs, pressure in the hydrants, that the fire trucks aren’t up on blocks waiting for an oil change and that fire crews’ chainsaws aren’t powered by magic crystals or broccoli fumes?
Is that too much to ask?
Again, forgive me in advance. But doesn’t years of dried brush and wild grass, pile upon pile, in uncountable tons, make for perfect kindling and fuel? I know there’s a purse-lipped pony-tailed lover of humanity and hater of humans somewhere clutching a pearl necklace about whether a vole can learn to tiptoe across a fire break. I also suspect that if we return to proactive woodlands fire management, there will be protests, with loudspeakers, chants and hysterical gyrations normally reserved to Salem Witch Trials and that the electronic news media will present California Stupidity as God’s Will Himself.
That kabuki theater aside, shouldn’t we clear brush? Come up with a modern fire watch/early warning system, especially around the dry and windy seasons? Use AI? Droughts come and go, but we eventually get drenched by enough rain to make our own ocean. I speak from experience. It’s pretty easy to dig a hole. Me? I’m a minimum-wage knucklehead. There are firemen and firewomen, and general smart guys and gals blessed with fire problem-solving skills and how to implement them.
What do we have to do? Dress them up as Eskimos or present them as having three nipples before listening — and then actually implementing — their good ideas?
It doesn’t really matter if the political leadership in Santa Clarita, Los Angeles city and county and at a state level are Democrats, Rosicrucian or members of the B52’s Rock Band International Fan Club. Year after year, we keep choosing not just numb nuts, but housefly-eating mental institution patients to lead us. We hand over our purse strings, our lives and, much, much worse, the lives of our children to imbeciles — elected or appointed.
Two more times? Three? Four? Twenty? We come home to find our beloved gleefully atop a porn st… er — entertainer.
Next year, a decade from now, a century hence, the hills will crackle, megalomaniacal wind storms will rage, homes will burn. Sheepishly, after fire or affair, we’ll sip a drink and ask, “Geez. What’s wrong here?”
The answer? It’s in front of us.
The spouse likes adult film stars. There’s no water in the fire hydrant. Not the husband’s fault. Not the fire hydrant’s fault. Husbands. Politicians. We make bad choices.
What makes insanity so attractive? It becomes our identity. Fire victim. Porn star lover for a mate. It adds to our gee-whiz story and people get to feel sorry for us.
Visit John Boston, earth’s most prolific satirist, at his online store, book shop and commentary/humor website — johnlovesamerica.com.